


Affective Memory

by nothingislittle



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, But also, Drunken Shenanigans, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Freebatch - Freeform, M/M, Martin is a right cheeky bastard, Open Relationships, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, RPF, Smut, Stag Night, and, god forgive me, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He can still feel the unfinished wood of the dressing room door, scraping against his back; still smell the dried makeup and costume glue and vague dustiness in his nose; can recall every moment the first time Martin pressed their bodies together. Benedict was jet-lagged, exhausted, flustered, and completely and totally enthralled with the compact man tugging at his shirt collar, pulling him down for a kiss."</p><p>A freebatch commission. Any resemblance to actual people is blah blah blah, etc., see you all in church.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affective Memory

_Dear Martin,_

It sits on top of the minimalist fireplace mantle, folded twenty different ways, the paper crinkled and then smoothed from when he thought better of it and threw it away and then immediately regretted it.

_I miss you terribly_ .

It’s not the first one that’s sat there. It’s not the first one that he’s written. It’s certainly not the first one ever conceived. But it is the one that’s stayed the longest.

_I think of you by the minute._

It’s full of embarrassing, private things. Sappy things. Things that he’s never said, that maybe he never will. Things he would be genially mocked for until his death.

_Sometimes I can’t believe being with you is something I have to arrange through assistants, or come by accidentally, or that I’m required to put all my hopes on the contents of a call sheet._

He’s not going to send it. He’s not. But the thought he might, the thought he might even get one back full of the same … it’s enough to keep it, sitting there, paper rubbed smooth from nervous fingers, tracing the words. It’s enough, sometimes, to think he _could_. It’s enough.

Sometimes.

 

. . .

 

Their first and only kiss, to this point, took place in a sweaty, cluttered dressing room in New Zealand. Prior to that the most obvious things they’d shared had simply been cheeky, borderline text messages and the odd, lingering touch.

Benedict had pined and wondered if he was the only one, but asking seemed out of the question. Instead he enjoyed simply being close and being friends, and, of course, flirting like teenagers. When Martin had vehemently insisted he visit the set, even for such a short time, Benedict couldn’t decline. He was drawn to him, magnetized. So he went.

He can still feel the unfinished wood of the dressing room door, scraping against his back; still smell the dried makeup and costume glue and vague dustiness in his nose; can recall every moment the first time Martin pressed their bodies together. Benedict was jet-lagged, exhausted, flustered, and completely and totally enthralled with the compact man tugging at his shirt collar, pulling him down for a kiss.

“ _About bloody time.”_ He remembers Martin’s breath against his face.

Unfortunately, thanks to an ill-timed knock on the door just then, a rushed dinner with the cast, and a red eye flight, they couldn’t even discuss it.

Still haven’t.

. . .

 

Two months out from filming feels like a year. Almost daily the desire to see him becomes embarrassingly desperate, throbbing, like hitting your thumb with a hammer — Martin, of course, being the hammer. Smashing and crashing into his life from that first read together, driving the nails into the coffin of life _before_. It will always be _before_ and _after_ now, for the rest of his life. Before reading that script with him, and after.

They’re both so frightfully, wonderfully busy that any extra time is earmarked for family. Of course, the odd invitation to dinner gets passed along through an email or text, but the prospect is simply too awkward, now. Especially, for some reason, knowing that she knows, approves, even, of what could be. These invitations are always politely declined.  _Too busy, filming, have a date that night._ Etc., etc., ad nauseum. The idea of being an audience to such domesticity, so near, so far. It feels like a farce. It feels like jealousy, which is something he wants to neatly sidestep.

It hurts and he pretends it doesn’t, and he knows the longing shows in every interview question about the two of them. At his core, he doesn’t care. Partially because he wishes everyone knowing wouldn’t be career ending. But if he’s entirely honest, it’s mostly because each mention of Martin earns him a falsely scathing text message. ‘ _Saw you on_ Graham Norton _. Cheeky Bastard.;’ ‘Did you call me short in_ The Times _, mother fucker?;’ ‘How is it you can recognize my feet on sight, eh?’_

Then the scripts start coming in and he’s a sinewy spring of excitement, pulled taut and ready to snap. He’s ready to be there, to be filming. He’s ready to go home. It’s all pleasant, jittery anticipation and none of his usual pre-shooting nerves — until the second script arrives by messenger.

There’s a …  _moment_ . Well, the entire episode, really, but the way the stag night scenes might play out could be particularly interesting. Considering.

Reading it over to be sure, Benedict’s palms are sweating, his heart beating inside his throat. His phone chirps.

_::What do you think?_

_:These scenes have a lot of, erm, potential._

_::Hmm, yes. There’s a lot we could explore._

The heat from his hands fogs the screen as he shakily types out a reply.

_:Perhaps we should we get together and … explore?_

The amount of time it takes Martin to respond seems particularly pregnant. Benedict wanders into the kitchen and downs a shot of room temperature whiskey.

_::Absolutely._

 

. . .

 

By some miracle, they’re both in London tonight, and, even more miraculous, they’re completely free. Benedict sees himself become a distressing cliche in the floor length mirror at the back of his closet as he tries and discards outfit following outfit. He settles on jeans (tight) and a simple, long-sleeved gray jumper (soft), irritated he can’t quite accomplish that effortless flair Martin always manages.

When the bell rings, Benedict in uncorking white wine in the kitchen and pretending his hands aren’t trembling. He shakes them out, hard, on the way to the front door, cursing under his breath because this is ridiculous, it’s Martin. But then he opens the door and it’s _Martin_ , looking brilliant and pleased and flushed and, _god_ , just mischievous enough around the eyes that everything in the entire world _tilts_. Benedict throws his arms around him, unrestrained, and they embrace — warm and solid. He very nearly says, “I’ve missed you,” but it seems so trite, so useless, so instead he holds, tight.

“Hello to you too.” Martin chuckles softly into his shoulder, and he can feel it in his chest. “Mind if we go … inside?”

Benedict shoots away, embarrassed, sheepish. “Yes, of course, sorry. Come in, come in.” Martin is smiling and as he passes Benedict on the way in, he squeezes his arm, and he instantly feels better.

In the kitchen, Martin leans over the counter, elbows pressed to the white granite, hands clasped, smirking at the wine — and at Benedict. He’s seen him do this on set, in character, in TV and films, but to be on the receiving end of Martin’s fierce and effortless charm — the flirtatious grin, the pop of his hip, and the tilt of his jaw — is unsettling. Exciting. Annoying. Benedict doesn’t understand how such a small man can exude such large amounts of raw, sexual energy, but even so, he seems to have turned it up all the way tonight. It’s only now that Benedict realizes he’s been looking at Martin for a solid 90 seconds, without speaking. He flushes. Pops his lips.

“Wine?”

“Please.”

When he passes him the glass, Martin drags his fingers along Benedict’s, says, “Cheers!” and winks cheekily. It’s so unoriginal and unsubtle that even though it goes straight to Benedict’s groin, he bursts out laughing.

“What?” The picture of innocence.

“I’ve never seen you put on so much, Martin.”

“Hmmm, too obvious then?”

“Quite.”

“Alright, I’ll try to dial back enough for you to function properly.”

“Fuck off.”

They laugh, settling quickly into the ease that exists between them as Martin slips effortlessly into work talk. Real work talk, about the new series, about the direction the show is going, about The Hobbit films and what Benedict has on the horizon. It’s so lovely and pleasant and Benedict vaguely notices that Martin did not, in fact, turn it down at all. He decides that’s fine with him and then notices two bottles of wine are empty, and he’s pouring from a third, only the first of which he remembers uncorking. Everything has taken on that soft, blurred quality, just gentle and warm ... and the skin over Martin’s cheeks has gone lovely shade of red and then Benedict realizes he said that last bit out loud.

“Oh are they?” Martin touches his cheeks, smiling. “Must be the wine.”

Benedict clears his throat, clumsily. “Must be.”

“So, anyway. What do you think?”

Benedict is suddenly distracted by Martin's eyelashes. _Have they always been so impossibly long? What were we just talking about?_ He can feel the flush creep up the back of his neck.

“Of ... what?”

“The script, you twat.” Martin holds the printed and marked up pages aloft, smirking.

“Ah, yes. Well. Quite impressive, isn’t it, they way the three of them work together on separate bits and can still create a coherent story line with all the subtle nuances of an episode written by a single author?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. Hey … do you s’pose you can crawl out from the writers’ collective arse long enough to run some lines?”

Benedict flips him off, biting his bottom lip — a perfect impression. In response, Martin licks his lips and Ben’s knees threaten to give.

“Living room?” Ben takes a quick sip to cover the quaver in his voice as he pours for himself, but Martin is already wandering into the next room, and dragging two chairs around to face each other to apparently imitate the 221B set.

“Bring out a bottle and we can do some method acting!”

 

. . .

 

Seven or eight whiskeys later and things have gotten sloppy and silly. Ben can’t manage to remember any of the lines, no matter how many times he looks the pages over. Martin, of course, already knows it all.

“Okay, get serious, Benny. Are you a professional actor or not?”

“Well excuse  _me_ , Mr. Olivier. Not everyone can learn all the lines on first fucking glance.”

“Your next line is, ‘Your go,’ git. Not exactly Shakespeare.”

“Fuck me.”

Both their heads snap up and they stare, Martin’s eyebrows are up in his hair line. Silence, for a beat. And then Martin’s spitting out his drink from laughing.

“Fuck  _off_ , I meant to say fuck  _off._ ” And then Ben is laughing, too. Loud and ugly, trying not to drool. In the fray, Martin falls forward half out of his chair, catches himself on Ben’s knee. Fifteen centimeters, Ben estimates, that’s how far Martin’s mouth is from his lap at this exact moment, and neither of them are laughing now.

“Well ... here’s something.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“This would be great, in the show.” He’s talking about work but his voice couldn’t sound farther from it. Low, silky.  _Dangerous_ . Benedict swallows and Martin’s eyes visibly dart to his neck. “They’re both drunk off their nuts, right? Maybe John slips forward, erm,  _accidentally_ .”

“Acci-accidentally?”

“Well, that’s how it’ll look, anyway. That’s how he’ll play it.”

“Steven would kill you, it’s too early.”

“Ah, but  _Stephen_ would love it. And so would Mark. Don’t you think the audience deserves a little …” Martin slips forward, just a bit more, just a bit closer to kneeling right there in front of him. Benedict’s throat is so dry it feels like it might crack open, right across his adam’s apple. Martin licks his lips and Benedict, he can’t,  _can’t_ help it. His hips jerk forward, incrementally. “... morsel?”

“Oh my god.”

“Now, Ben, that’s not in the script.”

It’s almost like the hands on his thighs are some sort of long lost key and Benedict feels something coming unlocked, with a dull, aching  _thud,_ deep in his chest. What it means or where this is going or how anything might change doesn’t matter in the slightest because  _now_ , oh god,  _now_ Martin’s hands are sliding up his legs, over his jutting hip bones, and smoothly unbuckling his belt. Now is the only time and place inside or outside the universe.

As Martin nuzzles into the space between Ben’s groin and leg, inhaling deeply, he can’t help but let his long fingers flutter down over the top of Martin's head, a breathy laugh escaping, and fire on his cheeks.

“I don’t, uhhhh …” A warm breath covers the length of him, pulsing tightly against his pants. “Ahh, don’t suppose this would fly on air, pre-watershed.”

“Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

“I doubt Sue would—”

“Shut up about the bloody show, I’m trying to suck you off.”

“ _Fuck_ .”

“Mmm … maybe.”

Benedict thinks fleeting, stupid things like maybe he’ll die, or burn up, but none of them make it over his lips as Martin’s deft tongue paints stripes up and down his cock, still trapped in his pants, soaking the cotton, sticking it to the skin. All that he can manage is huffs of air. He can’t look, he can’t, because he’ll come right now, before he’s even properly undressed, and Martin will never let him live it down. Instead, he wraps his hands tighter around Martin’s head, marveling at how his skull fits so perfectly, as if it were made to the precise specifications of Ben’s hands, for this exact purpose. His fingers tighten at the thought, as well as at the way Martin’s breathing has turned into this low, growling thing, like a wolf … like a  _predator_ .

And when Martin finally pulls the clinging fabric away and slips the head of him smoothly past his lips — like satin — Benedict can’t stop himself  _pushing_ and gripping Martin's skull, fingers brushing the closely shorn strands, trying for more, desperate and calling. Immediately all of Martin’s subtlety and slowness is abandoned. It must be the way he moans the name that does it — the high, whining tone Benedict’s voice takes on at times like this, so young, so unlike his regular baritone. The voracity with which he repeatedly swallows Benedict to the hilt would almost be alarming if it weren’t for the incredible warmth and tingling building over every part of Ben’s skin.

“Jesus, fuck, Martin — slow down, I’m —”

This is it, Benedict thinks, just before he can’t think anything, he’s going to come in  _Martin's_ mouth, in his  _throat_ , how did he get here? And the thought inspires a tiny, pathetic whimper just as white noise begins to creep in at the edges of his vision.

And then, nothing.

It all recedes, not quite cresting, and everything,  _everything_ is beating, shimmering, dizzy. A faint popping noise registers somewhere and he realizes, with searing annoyance, that Martin has stopped. Stopped at the precise last moment, and is now greedily lapping at Ben’s inner thighs.

“You … you utter …” Benedict tries to swear at him, only to find he’s almost too out of  breath to speak.  _Bastard_ , he thinks, letting his head, fall back, enjoying the flutter thing Martin is doing with his fingers across his bollocks, and just when his breath has settled enough for him to speak, Martin dives back, swallow him whole as if it were nothing,  _growling_ . Ben’s head snaps back up, catching his eye and Martin  _winks._ Benedict’s lost for it, hips about to jerk forward, whimpering again and …  _fucking Martin_ .

_Pop_ , he’s off again, holding Benedict’s eye, saliva smeared obscenely across his chin. There’s a beat, where they’re staring each other down, martin smirking and then a groan tears from Benedict’s throat. Martin bends down, kissing just under his prick, chuckling softly.

“You have a great little tell, Ben.” He mumbles against the skin there.

“Wha …” Everything seems just a little blurry, mushy, out of focus.

“When you’re about to come ...” Martin suddenly licks one long stripe all the way up the underside of Benedict’s shaft, and he whimpers again, all at once about to come“... you whimper.”

Another beat, as he steadies himself, breathing.

“I do not—”

Martin's mouth, around just the head, suckling, drawing at him, and Ben feels it building immediately, tries to stop himself, biting his lip, but he can’t, can’t help it, and when he makes the noise again, Martin sits back, smiling, evil and smug.

Benedict flushes — more.

“Oh you are a right  _bastard_ , aren’t you? I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

Martin slides up his body, which slipped down the chair considerably at some point.

“Yeh. I am.”

This isn’t like the other one, the New Zealand one, which Benedict thinks of as sandalwood and crashing waves and thunderclaps. This, only their second kiss, is something much more dangerous than that desperate, hard and scraping thing.  _This_ , this is the gentle undulating of a sailboat, the sun slipping below the clouds at dusk, this is a drop in the middle of a still pond, rippling outward endlessly, changing every portion of its surface, gently and quietly, but unmistakably. This feels like promises and holidays and all the stars in the sky wrapped up and tied with a bow.

Benedict opens his eyes to see Martin’s face, soft and serene as he runs his nose gently against Benedict’s cheek.

“So how long do you want me to torture you for?” He murmurs.

Benedict waits, silent, until his eyes open, and whispers against Martin’s mouth:

“Forever.”

The night is dangerous in many ways, of course. Another secret they’ll struggle to keep from the public eye, for one, and when Benedict finally gets to come, at the back of Martin’s throat, tears at the corner of his eyes, while Martin does the same against Benedict’s shin, the danger of never being satisfied by anyone else becomes plainly apparent.

But the real danger is this: Once they’re tidied up and settled effortlessly into each other on the sofa, Benedict looks down to see their fingers, laced together. And he realizes then that whether this turns out wonderfully or as a dreadful, crushing nightmare, they are now, at a molecular level, irrevocably changed. They’re in love with each other.

_Dangerous_ . Benedict tightens his large hand around Martin’s slight one.

“It’s worth it.”

Martin smiles, understanding, or at least pretending to. It doesn’t matter. They fall asleep, fingers intertwined.

 

. . .

 

That day on the set he’s determined to get it in one go. Take after take of Martin falling forward and grasping his knee, face merely inches from … Ben doesn’t think he could bear it, without going immediately, obviously, embarrassingly hard.

_One take. Do it in one and move on._

Everything is going well until Martin slips forward, until he touches him, and Benedict is on fire, doing sums in his head to keep calm, trying desperately to remain in character. Then Martin catches his eye and they’re laughing, hysterically, desperately. They both fall from their chairs and Colm shouts for a cut, proceeding to chew them out heartily as this is only the first scene of the day, and they really shouldn’t have the giggles already, and on and on.

_Two takes, then. Two takes is fine._

Benedict wipes tears from his eyes, and claps a still laughing Martin on the back, incandescently happy.

 

 


End file.
